


Postponed

by cruisedirector



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Angst, Blow Job, Denial, Gay Male Character, Kissing, M/M, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-02-19
Updated: 2005-02-19
Packaged: 2017-10-03 09:48:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cruisedirector/pseuds/cruisedirector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Don't you think some things are better left to the imagination?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Postponed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [karelian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/karelian/gifts).



> Remixed from RPS. Thanks to viva_gloria, jennandanica and tryllian for old world beta.

The fall breeze swept through the open windows of the bright Seacouver room, carrying the scent of dry leaves and wood fires. Warm and lazy on the couch, Methos took another swallow of whiskey and gave Duncan a contented grin. It wasn't exactly the reunion Methos had fantasized about during the months he had been wandering, no more than their previous meeting had been like any of his wilder imaginings. Yet he was happier than he'd been in a long time.

Duncan lay back against the cushions, head practically on Methos's shoulder. In all his years alive, Methos had very rarely smoked, but it was worth putting up with the taste of these vile South American cigars to share one with Duncan, passing the thick cylinder back and forth, their fingers wrapping over one another as they exchanged it, fitting their mouths to the same spot.

"You could just kiss me," he suggested, and got the expected laugh from Duncan.

"It's a little late for that, don't you think?"

"It's only ten-thirty."

Duncan chuckled again and, with a bit of fumbling, slipped the cigar between his fingers. "I meant, we've managed to be friends for so long, why risk blowing it now?"

It wasn't a serious reply because Duncan hadn't thought Methos was making a serious suggestion. Yet Methos wondered whether the answer would have been the same even if he'd spoken in earnest. He thought that Duncan in his fantasies probably made him happier than Duncan ever could in a reality where their lives kept them so far apart, and where a distant and terrifying future was sweeping closer with every passing hour.

Maybe that had been in Duncan's mind too, back before they knew each other so well, when Methos had just assumed Duncan was too unadventurously heterosexual for them to be together. But something kept shifting between them each time they saw each other, and Methos had a feeling it had reached critical mass.

As if he'd been sharing Methos's thoughts, Duncan added quietly, "Don't you think some things are better left to the imagination?"

And with the question right there in the open, Methos discovered something he hadn't really known for certain, not until he was asked.

"No. I don't. Safer, maybe, but not better."

The wind died down and the world went still. Slowly, as if he were drunk and his balance were on the verge of upset, Duncan leaned over and crushed the cigar out in the ashtray on the low table. Methos swallowed as he felt his throat start to tighten, second-guessing himself, thinking that perhaps Duncan had been right, sometimes there _was_ too much at stake, some things weren't ever meant to be voiced aloud...

Sitting back, Duncan turned to Methos, scanning his face. And Methos realized that he'd answered the question correctly after all.

Duncan kissed exactly the way Methos had guessed from the way the man handled a boat and a car and a sword. No hesitation, no caution. He closed his eyes, threw his whole body into it and had his lips parted before he even made contact. He got his arms around Methos's back at the same moment he got his tongue inside Methos's mouth, which he proceeded to devour like a starving man at a feast. When Methos was forced to break free to breathe, Duncan went to work on his earlobe, his chin, his throat.

There were some details that imagination just couldn't provide. Like how Duncan's eyelashes would flutter against Methos's skin when he pressed his nose into the hollow of Methos's cheek, mouth seeking the underside of his jaw. Like the guttural "fuck" that would escape from Duncan's lips when Methos turned his head and bit down on the side of Duncan's neck, not hard enough to leave a mark, just enough to make Duncan hold still for a moment so Methos could shift his body on the cushions, to angle himself so that Duncan could push him flat on his back if he wanted to.

He did want to. Their legs swung together onto the couch, already tangled, and no fantasy of Methos's had ever provided anything to compare with the sensation of Duncan's cock pressing into his thigh. Thousands of hours of fantasy all compacted in this moment that felt so astonishingly real.

Perhaps, for Duncan, too real. "I've had too much to drink," he mumbled distinctly.

Methos wanted only to distract Duncan from that thought, to convince him to finish what they'd started, but the words sent warnings blaring through his thoughts. He let his head fall back against the cushions and looked up at Duncan, who didn't follow him down, gazing at him as if he were just waking from a dream. They were both breathing hard, openmouthed; Duncan's face had red patches where Methos had tasted his skin, and Methos could feel overheated scratches on his own neck where Duncan's stubble had scraped him. He wanted to pull Duncan down with him, to kiss the marks...to let his legs fall open and let Duncan take anything he wanted. But Duncan looked like what he wanted most was to pull away.

Quietly Methos asked, "_Are_ some things better left to the imagination?"

"Not you," Duncan replied, but he broke eye contact, wriggling uncomfortably still half on top of Methos. "But. Where we're going. I don't..." His jaw tightened, and he jerked back, grating, "I can't."

The loss of contact felt like a blast of cold wind. Exposed, Methos reached for a pillow to avoid reaching for Duncan, pivoting until he was sitting upright.

"My fault," he admitted, refusing to think about what effect this disaster would have on the fantasies that pushed him over the edge when he was frustrated and put him to sleep on lonely nights. He was not going to let this take his friend away from him. "It was a bad idea to start. Pass me another cigar and let's..."

"I can't," repeated Duncan, more to himself than Methos. His voice shook. Methos took a good look and saw how flushed he was, trembling, still breathing too fast, an adrenaline-charged mixture of arousal and fear. Duncan blinked rapidly and bit his lip before continuing. "I can't do this. I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it. I should've listened to you in the first place." Duncan still had both knees on the couch, pressed against the side of Methos's hip, but there was nothing suggestive about the contact anymore. Methos moved one hand across Duncan's arm as he shifted and was startled to find that the skin had turned clammy. He'd seen Duncan red-faced with fury and pale with grief, but he had never seen him like this. "Hey. I didn't mean to talk you into anything you didn't want."

"You didn't. I wanted you to."

So it wasn't that Duncan simply couldn't accept the thought that he'd wanted another man. But if he could admit that, why was he still trembling? "I didn't mean it as anything serious," Methos tried to explain, wondering if Duncan needed it to be casual -- an experiment -- even a joke. "For fun. For pleasure. You live long enough, you try a lot of things. But if you don't want to, I understand."

"No, you don't understand -- I _can't_."

Duncan's head ducked, and Methos could see the pain underlying the shame. "I'm sorry. I thought you were saying you didn't want to because that's what straight men are supposed to say, not because it upset you so much." He exhaled hard as Duncan yanked his arm free. "I shouldn't have pushed..."

"You weren't wrong." Tugging the pillow from under Methos's arm into his own lap, Duncan sat back and sank his chin into the top of the loosely padded material, fingers finding and twisting a fraying thread. "I'm not going to lie to you. But I can't."

Of course Duncan couldn't pretend it was casual, Methos realized. No more than Methos could. Up until a few minutes ago he'd had his own reasons for rationalizing never doing this, but Duncan had identity issues tied up in his sexuality on top of whatever emotion he had invested in Methos -- he hadn't lived through the glory of Greece, when taking a beautiful man as a lover was considered a privilege rather than a sin. Methos had had been an idiot to think Duncan would do this for fun. "I'm really sorry," he said again. "I'm so fucking blind sometimes. Are you angry?"

"For asking me to kiss you? I don't think so." The humor in Duncan's voice made him sound more like himself. "Thought you might be, though."

"Why would I be angry?" But Duncan didn't speak any further, apparently expecting Methos to answer his own question, and Methos understood something else. "This has happened to you before, hasn't it." The shrug he received in response contained a nod. "Did something..._happen_ to you?"

"No one tried to force me, if that's what you mean."

"But something's got you upset besides me being a jerk."

At that Duncan finally looked up and tried to grin at him, though dark circles surrounded his eyes. "Yeah. You're not my first jerk." Methos returned the smile until Duncan sobered. "The first one was a good friend, too."

There was a long silence. "What happened?"

"What happened was..." Duncan let his voice trail off. Just when Methos thought he wasn't going to say anything else, he shifted a knee onto the sofa, half-turned to Methos and began to talk quickly. "This happened. It was just for fun at first, but I liked it and I knew he liked it. He was one of the best swordsmen I ever knew. But he had problems -- he hated the Game. Turned to drugs. Opium." Brian Cullen, Methos guessed from the description -- he hadn't known the man, but he'd heard the stories. "When it started getting to be too much, I told him just what I told you, that I couldn't. He started calling me names. You know which ones. I tried to tell him I was sorry but it didn't matter. Flash forward to now, not long before I met you -- he gets it in his head to kill Richie. I'm sure he thought Richie was my new boy."

"And you had no choice but to take his head."

"He'd told people about us, I found out later. Everyone thought he was a sick user who made up stories. I even tried to tell Richie the truth, and he said it was the other guy's problem, like it had nothing to do with me." Duncan paused to take a harsh breath. "That's what happened. He was my friend -- he knew things about me nobody else knew. I've never told anyone else. After he died, nobody knew. That's why I can't. I'm sorry."

Though he hadn't shifted position, Duncan was curled in on himself, head down, arms stiff against the pillow which he held like a shield between them. Methos's gut clenched in sympathy.

"You know we would never end up like that, don't you?" He started to reach for Duncan's hand again, but he was afraid the gesture would be taken the wrong way and cursed himself for having pushed things to that point. "That's not what you're afra--that's not why?"

"No," Duncan replied almost inaudibly. "It's also because it would make all those things he said about me true."

Fuck. Methos had met men who wouldn't act on their desires because of what their parents would say, their girlfriends would say, their buddies would say, but none of those were as hard to overcome as an immortal ghost. He murmured, "You realize he was calling himself those names more than you."

"I know that. I'm not a complete idiot." Duncan's voice grew hard, then just as quickly dropped off. "It doesn't change anything though. He's dead."

"Sure it does. He wasn't even talking to you. You weren't the one he was mad at. He might have died before he figured that out..."

"Stop the analysis, all right, doctor?" The anger crept back and Duncan glared at Methos. "How would you feel if I said those things to you? Blamed all of this on you and walked out of here, told Richie and Amanda that you were some fucking queer who tried to fuck with me, challenged you and lost and they said, oh, we knew he was weak all along, glad you're not like that? And you were too much of a coward to say otherwise?"

Duncan's eyes were haunted, and Methos suddenly could grasp what Duncan must hear when he touched him -- not just the epithets, but what they would sound like hurled at him in the voice of his dead best friend who had betrayed him. "Duncan, I'm so sorry," he said, because he couldn't think what else to tell him. "That was a terrible thing he did to you and to himself. I'm just...I'm sorry."

What fury was left in Duncan drained away slowly, replaced by resignation. He sat very still, his breathing quiet and even. Finally he spoke, his voice as dejected as the slump of his shoulders. "That's all you've got to say?"

"What do you mean? What did you want me to say?"

Duncan grinned mirthlessly. "I guess I thought you'd make me see it differently. Didn't expect you to give up so easily."

Was he kidding? Methos didn't think so, and felt a thrill spread slowly through his gut that felt like fear. That was a request from a friend, and he'd started the chain of events that had gotten them there -- he owed it to Duncan to figure out how to make it right. "Fuck," he said softly, which made Duncan's smile become warmer. "What you said...I'd feel awful."

"You wouldn't have, would you?"

"Wouldn't have what?"

"You don't care about what people think about things like that, do you."

"I lived in different times. Never worried much about what stains people saw on my code of honor. But there are some people where you always care what they think, even if you know they're prejudiced, or just stupid." Friends, even very old friends, were unpredictable sometimes; they took things personally that had nothing to do with them. But that was why you couldn't plan your life around them, too.

"The people who care about you are going to care about you anyway. Don't you think some of them probably knew the story but didn't say anything to you because they didn't know how to talk about it? Maybe Richie didn't want to hear it because the possibility hit a little too close to home. Those words only define you if you let them."

Duncan started to tug at the fraying thread on the pillow again. Something popped loose, and a dozen more strands began to unravel across his fingers. With a sigh he started to twist them up, pressing them down into the hole he'd made. "I've heard stories about you and me," he said.

A deep, low thrill went through Methos. He knew there had been rumors -- Duncan had brought him back into the Game, into the world -- and even Amanda had expressed curiosity, with not a little jealousy, wondering slyly what was between them. "Does that bother you?" he asked.

"I can laugh at them because they're not true. I don't have to feel like a liar."

"Duncan, there have been rumors about me and you, and you and Richie, and me and Kronos, and if I remember right even you were curious exactly what had happened between me and him." Methos had meant to be serious, but Duncan grinned and it felt as if the room had suddenly grown lighter. "I don't know how many people believe whatever they believe, but it still doesn't define me for them. And as for lying about it, don't tell me you've never lied to anyone about who you've slept with. When women want to know your history before the lights are off, do you tell them your entire history?"

"They don't ask me, they assume," Duncan snorted.

"You see my point. We can't get away from our pasts; they're too long. Not even hiding in some chateau in Switzerland, ignoring the world."

"It's nice in Switzerland," smiled Duncan.

"Then let's go. Buy a castle on a mountain and ignore the world for a few years. We could ski, and paint, and sit around arguing about whether Nietzche was full of shit."

It was an old daydream, intense with replaying. Methos shut his eyes for a moment, thinking that if he couldn't have the reality of Duncan all to himself in a castle to remember, then at least he could have this moment of talking about it with him.

"There are a lot of trees. A lot of land. You could spend all morning toning that impossible physique of yours. And swimming -- the lakes are freezing all year long, but you run around in shorts in the winter anyway. Then we could go inside and have a fire..."

When he opened his eyes Duncan was staring at him, flushed like before, but with his expression changed, charged. The current passed between them and Methos realized he'd said much too much. "Or we could just drive to the peninsula and go fishing," he heard himself babbling.

"You volunteering to drive?" Duncan's eyes flickered away, but his fingers slid down the pillow they'd been shredding, over toward Methos's.

"You can sleep in the car."

"Did you mean all that about Switzerland?" The cushions rustled as Duncan turned. His gaze was intense, unclouded by ghosts or shame. Methos had to swallow before he could speak but he was already nodding.

"Yes."

Duncan leaned over and kissed him again. Differently than earlier -- just as hungry, yet focused, not exploring so much. Trying to tell him something. Methos got one hand under his arm and the other around the back of his head, simply holding on, waiting to see where Duncan was going to take it or if he would panic again, but he didn't. The tension in his hands and shoulders had evolved, though it was still there, making Duncan clutch him tightly, almost painfully, and that was trying to tell Methos something too. He could hear himself making pleased little noises when he exhaled -- humming, affirmative noises -- and Duncan answered him in a lower, harsher growl.

They ended up stretched out side by side on the couch, pillows tossed out of the way, clothing askew, and Methos was about to slide down when Duncan caught him under the arms and said, "No, let me."

"Don't you want--"

"You have to let me, first, or I'll have performance anxiety."

Methos laughed aloud. Duncan was blushing and having trouble meeting his eyes, but he didn't look scared, just embarrassed. He folded himself over Methos and proved to be no more tentative with his mouth on Methos's cock than he'd been about kissing, though his hands were hesitant at first, gaining assurance only when Methos started groaning to let him know what he liked. Not that it really mattered, because Methos was so aroused from the moment Duncan touched him that it was over before Duncan really started exploring. Not that Duncan seemed to mind, either.

Yet Duncan had trouble relaxing when Methos lay him down and bent over him to repay him in kind. He kept tensing up, squirming away from Methos's hands, and though Methos thought at first that maybe he was uncomfortable on the couch and suggested the bedroom, that only made Duncan withdraw further.

"Maybe I really can't," he said, trying to make light of it despite the frustration burning on his face, which made his eyes glitter and his cheeks flush crimson.

"What aren't you liking?"

"It's not that I'm not liking it. I'm no good at just lying there. I think too much."

"Then don't lie there. Stand up. Fuck my mouth." He could feel the effect those words had on Duncan, whose muscles knotted with an entirely different tension. "Come on. I want you to." He pulled on Duncan's hips and Duncan sat up, looking dazed, though his hands moved automatically to his shirt and started to pull it off before his head turned suddenly in the direction of the open windows. Quickly Methos walked across the room to pull the curtains.

When he came back, everything about Duncan was erect and quivering -- his back, his nipples, his cock. Methos dropped his shirt on top of the pile of clothing. He went slowly to his knees, and Duncan's hands came forward to hold his head. He could feel the effort it took Duncan to be gentle. "Stop holding back," he ordered, watching Duncan's nostrils flare in protest the moment before he took Duncan's cock in his mouth.

Duncan made a strangled noise and began to move, taking Methos at his word, tilting his head in his hands, pushing in hard. "Ah-" he gasped. Methos slid his hands around from Duncan's hipbones to his ass, feeling those magnificent muscles clench under his palms. Relaxing his throat and teasing Duncan with his tongue, he took the choking thrusts until Duncan's hips suddenly hitched in their rhythm. Methos pulled back just enough to suck forcefully the moment before Duncan began to flood his mouth, shouting his name without restraint.

When Duncan had stopped ramming himself forward, Methos slid his hands down damp, slippery legs to press the backs of Duncan's knees until they buckled and Duncan collapsed onto the couch. He was still breathing hard, blinking at Methos with his mouth open, looking more surprised than anything else. Methos grinned at him broadly, wiping his lower lip with a finger, and Duncan's hands shot out to pull him up to the couch with him.

"Fuck," Duncan said. He lay back against the cushions with his head by Methos's shoulder, nearly where it had been before they'd started any of this, when the cigar had still been an acceptable substitute. Grinning, Methos reached for another one and lit it. It smelled and tasted as awful as ever, but he knew now that cigars would always remind him of Duncan, and he would always love them for it.

"Stay here tonight?" he asked quietly.

"If you want."

"You don't want to?"

Duncan glanced over at him almost shyly. "Sure I do. But you don't have to ask just--"

"I want you to," Methos interrupted, pressing the cigar into Duncan's fingers. "Even if you just want to sleep. I've wanted you to for a long time."

"What if I don't just want to sleep?" Duncan snorted.

"Then we can..." Methos started to grin and stopped, afraid of pushing Duncan again, not knowing where the boundaries might be anymore. He pulled Duncan's hand with the cigar to his own lips, letting his mouth press Duncan's palm.

"I want more," Methos said. Duncan's fingers quivered as they drew the cigar away. "I mean, it's fine if you don't, but I wanted to tell you..."

"I do." Duncan's voice was gruff, and his hand was still trembling when he brought it back down to Methos's, making Methos's temporarily sated body shiver with the vibrations. "Been waiting long enough. You might be disappointed though."

"No chance." Twisting his head, Methos met Duncan's gaze, which was nervous yet unflinching, with no ghosts hovering between them. Duncan returned his smile.

They smoked in silence for a few minutes. Then Duncan sighed and stretched, relaxing against Methos. "You were right -- it's better like this. Even if it doesn't last."

"You don't think it will last?" asked Methos carefully, unsure whether he was hearing pessimism or resignation in Duncan's tone.

"That's not what I meant. I want it to. But I'm not the only one who's been hiding. You've never actually invited me to Switzerland." And it was true, Methos knew. He'd hinted about things, come and gone in Duncan's life, but he'd never come out and said that they should pick a week, clear their calendars and spend their time together, planning a future. "I think whatever happens, even if it doesn't work, it'll be better to know."

"Much better," Methos echoed, warmer and happier than he usually felt outside of dreams. The ghosts might come back the way Cassandra had come back but Methos thought they could deal with it if it did; they were in an altered place now, where the past might not be able to find them so easily.

Turning, he pressed closer to Duncan. "You know what they say about better late than never."

 


End file.
